


Seven Years

by Nefairyus



Category: The Room (2003)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-19 19:31:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18976939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nefairyus/pseuds/Nefairyus
Summary: The perfect man donates years of his life to his beautiful lover to combat her devastating illness in preparation for the one big score that will make both of them immortal. But will everybody betray him? Will he become fed up with this world?





	Seven Years

 

The pale, unyielding moon shimmered above the rolling whitecaps in the bay. Heat rose from the smooth sand, distorting the scant light that lingered in the night. The water curled and crashed against the shore, spawning in the tumult an array of tiny moons; reflections in a shattered mirror.

The beach was silent. No seabirds cawed, no crabs scuttled. The creatures remained hidden, sheltered from the pervading presence of sin. It seemed the animals always knew.

A short distance inland, within the great city, a heinous crime was unfolding. Nature herself was poised to be violated– ravaged beneath the veil of the canopy bed. The night-black of the chamber was dotted with the clustered flames of grand, thick candles. Red petals adorned the white sheets upon which the ritual would begin.

Beside the bed, the two lovers danced sensually. Impish smiles played upon their lips as their bodies entwisted and their hands explored. Thirsting lips met one another as they fell to the bed and threw the man's black jacket to the floor. They inhaled one another in passion as they undressed each other, until the lithe, nymphal woman and the broad, muscular man lay smooth against the sheets. For many long seconds they each stared, unblinking, into the other's eyes.

They were unwed. They sought no child. These things did not matter; nature cared not for the puritanical shackles society had thrust upon them. No, their sin was far greater.

Their desire swelled. He ran his hands across her full breasts and felt her rise between his fingers. His body responded, and he pulled his knees up the length of the mattress, straddling his lover above her hips.

He offered her one more delicate kiss before the lurid crescendo. The faintest pang of nervousness– evil, excited– flitted through him before he finally penetrated her.

His turgid phallus, driven deep into her navel, was the implement of unbirth. The inverted umbilical cord, sending her backwards, driven by the creative act that spawns all life. A perversion of natural law. A radical undoing of time.

Immediately she cried out in ecstasy. He laughed softly as they rocked together, locked in unholy congress beneath the exquisite canopy and the stalwart moon.

 

When morning came, he woke first. A new, dull ache in his left knee struggled against him as he rose from the bed. The still air felt cooler against his bare skin as he crossed to the bathroom. He winced when he saw the stretch marks raking his body. He stared at his sunken reflection and argued, silently, that she was worth it.

The rising sun slowly crept to her eyes and gently prodded her awake. She felt herself giddily: the firmness, the smoothness. Youth. The small lines in her face had pulled taut and vanished. Fresh, pigmented roots had risen from her crown in stark contrast to the pallid hair beyond. She lay there, dozing and content, as her lover emerged from the bathroom fully dressed. He whisked aside his long raven locks and stooped to gently kiss her cheek.

“Did you like last night?” Johnny asked.

“Yes I did,” Lisa replied.

Johnny laughed enigmatically.

***

 

Lisa fidgeted on the chocolate brown sofa. She pulled a pillow from behind her back, fluffed it violently, and replaced it in a vain effort to ease her discomfort. Tension bound her whole body, and she was unsettled inside and out.

After what seemed like ages, the doorbell rang. She rose slowly and trudged across the room. She opened the door and greeted her guest in a dull monotone.

“Hi Mom, how are you?”

“I'm fine,” Claudette replied, quickly taking stock of her daughter's rejuvenated body. A clear improvement, she thought, and yet Lisa's face was forlorn. “How are you, hmm?” Claudette continued insistently.

Lisa responded, meaningfully, with silence.

“Okay.” Claudette frowned. “Let's go to the couch and we will sit down.” The old woman's presence was commanding, and Lisa obeyed without thinking.

“Now, what's happening with you?” Claudette asked as they sat.

Lisa was engulfed with shame. It was enough to fortify her against Claudette's needling questions.

“Nothing much,” she offered with a fake smile, “Do you want some coffee?”

But Claudette was voracious. “What's wrong? Tell me.”

Lisa's stomach lurched. It offered up a half truth.

“I'm not feeling good today,” she said.

“Well why not?”

And Lisa was trapped. She envisioned Johnny's newly aged body, the angry red lines in his skin, his formless, melting face, and she shuddered. She steeled herself with a deep breath and blurted out the disgraceful truth.

“I don't love him anymore.” The words seemed to echo inside her head. She could never take them back. His sacrifice, their covenant. They were supposed to spend these years together. She awaited Claudette's fury, and yet her mother just looked quizzically at her.

“Why don't you love him anymore? Tell me.”

“He's so...” she began, then fumbled for an explanation. She couldn't be seen as shallow. Not now. “Boring!” she exclaimed with false fervor.

Somehow, Claudette bought it. “Well you've known him for over five years! You're engaged!”

This drew Lisa into a memory from just over five years before, when she had just arrived in San Francisco after finishing her associate's degree in computer science. Two interviews in the city, and she had washed out. She sat alone in the hotel restaurant sipping a coffee and wondering what she would do. Twenty years old and frustrated, directionless.

Claudette prattled on in an unbroken monologue about all Johnny does to support Lisa as her reverie continued.

A strapping bus boy from the hotel approached her and said hi to her. Perhaps the fresh rejections had made her vulnerable, but she took to him immediately. He told her he was thirty years old, though in his thick accent she thought he said twenty. He laughed musically before he gently corrected her, and she was enamored all the same. He was beautiful, then. She decided she'd spend some of her remaining money to take the charming rogue to dinner...

“And he told me he plans to buy you a house!” Claudette asserted. Lisa's awareness crept back in. Her reminiscence only made her feel more guilty about the revulsion she now felt when she looked at Johnny.

“That's why he's so boring!” she blurted defensively.

Claudette recoiled. “Well what are you going to do?”

“I don't know,” Lisa admitted. “I don't mind living with him.” Her face flushed. Was that all she could say?

***

 

Mark's heart raced. He sat stiffly in a short armchair as Lisa's nails traced across the back of his neck. He had told her he was very busy. Twice. What was this about?

Lisa's eagerness caused her poise to slip. She sloppily dumped red wine into a champagne flute and handed it to Mark. She didn't even bother to pour a glass for herself before launching into a display of teenage subtlety.

“It's hot in here,” she said as she toyed with the ribbon of her black shrug. “Do you mind?” she asked rhetorically as the garment came loose.

Mark felt goosebumps rise on his arms. First she plied him with alcohol, now this. An ominous thought pierced his mind: _Does she know? Is she setting me up?_

“No,” he finally replied. He didn't mind. He couldn't mind, or else she might suspect him. If it wasn't true, if he wasn't that way, then he wouldn't mind.

He immediately regretted his choice as she pawed at his hand. He needed to escape, but he couldn't arouse suspicion. A long silence passed in which Mark frantically searched for a solution. Finally, he shook his head gently and contorted his face into a mad smile.

“I mean, the candles,” he muttered nonsensically. Puzzled, Lisa looked around the room. Mark pressed on.

“The music,” he added. There was no music. She returned a baffled look. Maybe she'd think it was heat exhaustion. He was very busy, after all. Was she buying it? The silence was oppressive.

“The sexy dress,” Mark uttered, then realized his mistake. This one was not so random. She looked down at her black dress and smiled broadly at him. He felt the noose tighten. His breathing quickened as he looked up pleadingly at her.

“I mean, what's going on here?” he asked as casually as he could.

Lisa lowered herself daintily into his lap. “I like you very much, lover boy.”

“What are you doing this for?” Mark demanded as the adrenaline started to flow.

Lisa stroked his hair gently. “What's the matter? Don't you like me?”

A carnal yearning stirred below. Mark feared it would betray him. He had to end this now, before she saw it. Before he could no longer deny his desire.

Lisa still watched his face. “I'm your girl?” she added, hunting for affirmation.

Finally, he found his excuse. Ironclad, unimpeachable. He gently pulled her hand away from his head.

“Johnny's my best friend.”

***

 

Mark sat at the base of the spiral staircase, basking in relief. He had made it through, and she suspected nothing. But how many times would he have to take the risk? It didn't stop her when he said Johnny was his best friend. She still wanted him when he refused to take his pants off. He insisted that they do it on the stairs, and yet she was insatiable. No matter how unsexy he tried to make it, she would not be denied. His seductress sat in odd silence one step above him. He summoned all of the acting skill he could muster and turned to her.

“God, why did you do this to me?” He sighed audibly. “Why?”

Lisa looked at him, but remained silent.

“Johnny's my best friend,” he finished mournfully. He dared not watch her reaction.

“Didn't you enjoy it?” Lisa pleaded. Mark was incredulous, but stifled the feeling. He hadn't even taken his pants off!

“That's not the point,” he dodged.

“I love you, Mark,” Lisa said mechanically.

Mark braced himself for his gambit. “Look, you're very attractive, alright? You're _beautiful_.” His pulse pounded in his ears. “We can't do this anymore. I can't hurt Johnny.”

He watched her. The seconds dragged unbearably. Hope edged carefully into his chest.

“I know.” She lifted her gaze to meet his. “He's your best friend.”

***

 

“Half Canadian bacon with pineapple, half artichoke with pesto, and light on the cheese. Thanks.” Lisa hung up the phone, beside herself with excitement. This was the day: the pivotal step in her and Johnny's plan. The day he would gain access to The Room.

Seconds later, the doorbell rang. Lisa was seized by conspiratorial fear. She was expecting no one but the bearer of the celebratory pizza.

“Who is it?” she barked.

“Denny,” replied a deranged, child-like voice.

Lisa relaxed, a little. She opened the door just enough for the scrawny young man to wriggle through.

“Hey Denny, how are you doing?” she recited absently.

“I'm fine,” he said, distracted by his hungry eyes. He searched up and down Lisa's invigorated, renewed body lustfully. “What's new?” he asked ironically.

Lisa exhaled. Once again she was to endure his lechery.

“Actually, I'm really busy,” she remarked, echoing the words of her prey. She changed the subject. “Do you want something to drink?”

“No thanks,” he replied, “I just want to talk to Johnny.”

Lisa was relieved, only momentarily. The excuse proved as ineffective for her as it did for Mark.

“You look beautiful today,” Denny said as his breath became audible. His dead eyes stared beyond Lisa's. A chill ran through her as she stood motionless, avoiding his gaze. She pleaded silently for the moment to end.

It didn't. “Can I kiss you?” he added. He leaned toward her in anticipation. The expectation suffocated her. Johnny loved this nymphomaniac. If she were to spend her life with Johnny– an eternity with him– would she never escape the sick advances of Denny?

“You are such a little brat!” she joked. Though Denny had rejuvenated to a physical age younger than Lisa's, in true age he was her senior.

She successfully disarmed him. “I'm just kidding!” he lied. “I love you and Johnny.” This, Lisa knew, was the truth, as much as she tried to forget it. She played her expected role soullessly until he finally departed.

 

Johnny's lustrous black hair cascaded down either side of the steering wheel as he rested his forehead against it. His pale fingers gripped the wheel tightly as the car idled in the afternoon heat. When he finally sat up, the corners of his eyes were moistened with grief.

He stared ahead at the entrance to his building and killed the engine. He grasped the door handle, but couldn't open it. He felt paralyzed– pinned by the weight of his failure. In the passenger seat lay a dozen red roses, their leaves beginning to wilt in the sun. A pathetic apology, stained by the consequences of his sacrifice.

She didn't even recognize him. The woman who owned the flower shop. He went there all the time to select the finest arrangements for his princess. He was her favourite customer, and yet she'd greeted him as a stranger.

He glared balefully into the rear-view mirror at the monster he had become.

_“Oh, hi Johnny. I didn't know it was you.”_

Didn't know it was him. Her favourite customer.

Inside, Lisa was waiting. He couldn't avoid it forever. With a heavy sigh, Johnny snatched the bouquet and opened the door. He lurched out and trudged leadenly to the apartment door.

Lisa bounced from her seat as the door began to move. Her warm smile of greeting amplified his anguish.

“Hi babe,” he offered meekly. He produced the roses from behind his back. “These are for you.”

“Thanks, honey. They're beautiful.” She kissed him tenderly on the cheek. The meaningless pleasantries concluded, she lunged for the real prize.

“Did you get your promotion?” She smiled without apprehension. It had been three months, after all. A million excuses raced through Johnny's head. Overwhelmed, he turned away from her expectant face and tried in vain to express one of them.

“Nyuh,” was all that came out. He stepped away from her, then, feeling light-headed, threw himself onto the couch.

Fury blazed through Lisa's body. She trembled as she struggled to contain it. He didn't get it. She tolerated all of his nonsense, she agreed to marry him, and he didn't get his promotion. She recoiled away from him for a moment until her calculating mind had reset. She returned to sit across from him, clutching a vase so tightly she feared it would shatter in her hands.

She looked at him. At the disgusting face. “You didn't get it, did you?” She knew, and yet she needed to hear it.

“That son of a bitch told me that I would get it within free months!”

And so began the excuses. The complaints. The whining. Lisa didn't hear them. He didn't get his promotion, that was all that mattered. Even after all the time he had spent at the Chronobank, he still didn't have full security clearance. Their plans stretched further away, almost beyond the horizon.

Johnny stammered on, speaking rapidly in his desire to explain. Repulsed, Lisa thought again of Mark. His rugged masculinity. The firm black tent in his jeans...

A pause in Johnny's grumbling arrived, unheeded. Lisa shook herself back into awareness and quickly planned her escape: she would stupefy him with the strongest, grossest cocktail she could imagine and then plant the seed of discord.

***

 

The next day, Lisa and Claudette lounged by the spiral stairs discussing Johnny's thirty-sixth birthday party. The custom of marking one's true age had persisted, with an air of condescension.

Claudette lowered her coffee cup. “Well sure, I can come.” She paused for a moment, then continued, “but I don't know if I'll bring anybody.”

Claudette enjoyed the dignified look of her apparent age, but had no suitors at the moment who presented as seniors themselves. Stark age differences, even when only cosmetic, were still a little scandalous. It was likely that Johnny's and Lisa's social circle was uncomfortable with the widening of the gulf between them from ten to twenty-four years; so far, no one had said so.

The two women gossiped, floating from one vain concern to another. Claudette described a property dispute with her brother, who was only a little more petty than she was.

“Everything goes wrong at once,” she remarked. “Nobody wants to help me, and I'm 'dying',” she added flippantly.

Lisa rolled her eyes. “You're not dying, Mom.”

Claudette took a swallow of coffee. “I got the results of the test back,” she teased, “I definitely have breast cancer.”

Annoyed, Lisa thought briefly of her own illness. She responded carefully, undermining her mother's melodrama while displaying the expected amount of sympathy.

“Look, don't worry about it,” she began. “Everything will be fine. They're curing lots of people every day.” She thought briefly, painfully, about Johnny's bank.

Claudette set down her cup and turned her right hand inward. “I'm sure I'll be alright,” she said aloofly as she glanced at the timer embedded in her wrist. She smirked.

“Oh, I heard Edward is talking about me,” Claudette continued. “He is a hateful man. Ugh, I'm so glad I divorced him.”

“Look, don't worry about it,” Lisa repeated. “You just concentrate on getting well,” she added sarcastically. Unconsciously, she touched her neck.

Claudette absorbed the slight gracefully. “Well at least you have a good man,” she replied.

Lisa summoned an expression of horror framed in nervousness. “You're wrong.”

She saw the surprise in her mother's face. It was working.

“Mom, he's not what you think he is.” She pinched her dark eyebrows inward. “He didn't get his promotion.”

This didn't devastate Claudette the way it should have. Lisa anticipated this. Planned for this.

“And he got drunk last night,” she continued. “And he hit me.”

***

 

Denny knew he was coming. He'd be getting desperate by now. Reckless. All Denny had to do was wait. He climbed the stairs to the top of the building and stepped out onto the empty rooftop. As he waited, he slowly dribbled the basketball he had brought for the express purpose of trivializing the man's pleas.

The tall man moved like a cat. He clambered silently to the top of a hedge and, carefully distributing his weight, leapt up to grab a second floor balcony. With tremendous street-won strength he pulled himself up onto it. He rolled over until he was against the balcony door, then gingerly sat up and tried it. Locked. He frowned.

Nimbly he sprang up to the balls of his feet and crouched beside the door, thinking. He reached a decision quickly and confirmed it with a quick glance at his wrist timer. He removed his black tuque and wrapped his hand in it. He winced as he punched through the plate glass of the door and flipped the lock open. He darted through the empty apartment and out of it, shaking shards of glass out of his hat as he ran toward the stairwell.

Denny continued dribbling. Bouncing away as he gazed out across a surreal cityscape. Bounce. Bounce. Footfalls now. Bounce. Bounce. The hinge of the door squealed as the man threw it open. Denny caught the ball and held it to his side as they stared each other down.

The man emerged from the doorway in full burglar garb: a black tank, black track pants, and the black, glass-misted tuque. An image of death, Denny thought. Appropriate.

“Hey Denny,” the man said as he approached.

“Chris-R,” Denny sneered, “I've been lookin' for ya.”

Chris-R. Chris the Reprobate. A member of the underclass, the untouchables. Freaks. Reprobates were incapable of rejuvenation. They only aged forwards until the end of their miserable lives. Truly they were forsaken, depraved. Cast out into the streets, they struggled for a meager existence. Drugs, prostitution, contract killing. These were the only scraps that the others would throw them. Not all of them accepted their station: some experimented with black market drugs and quack science, hoping to find some ramshackle way to roll back their timer. But it was all in vain.

Denny had used the label assigned by the Ministry. Chris-R. The scarlet letter used to mark the miserable few. But Chris-R didn't flinch. He welcomed the moniker proudly, just as he would brazenly display his outie navel.

He snatched Denny's basketball from his delicate hands. “Yeah, sure you have.” He called the bluff: no one ever looked for repros unless they needed drugs or blood. He stared intensely at the cherubic pervert.

“You have my money, right?” he smoldered.

Denny lowered his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, as a wave of fear flowed through him. He was losing control of the situation. Such an uppity repro!

“It's coming,” Denny lied. “It'll be here in a few minutes.” Chris-R had shaken the cool swagger he had envisioned, but the rest of the plan was still viable.

Chris-R's nostrils flared. “What do you mean it's coming, Denny?” He leaned in close. Denny felt his hot, unclean breath on his face and shuddered.

“Where's my money?” the repro asked, brimming with vitriol. Denny's knees began to shake.

“Okay. Just- Just give me five minutes.” Denny stammered. Chris-R backed away. “Just give me five!” Denny added with a false friendliness. Chris-R nodded sardonically.

“Five minutes?” he asked, “You want five fucking minutes, Denny? Well you know what?” he reached into his back pocket. “I haven't got FIVE FUCKING MINUTES!” he screamed as he produced a silver pistol.

Denny froze in terror. The repro wrenched the boy's neck forward and threw him to his knees. Denny whimpered as he felt the hard steel jam into the base of his skull. Chris-R's words slurred and blended in his mind as his heart pounded. The gunman continued to scream at him as he awaited the final bullet.

The sound of pounding footsteps and scuffling pulled Denny back to lucidity. Three men were shouting now: the repro, Johnny, and Mark. The best friends had heard the screaming and ran to the roof to investigate. Incredibly, they wrestled Chris-R off Denny faster than he could pull the trigger. Mark snatched the gun away and held it to Chris-R's head, demanding that he put his hands up.

Proud though he was, the reprobate complied. They walked toward the access door and, as the prisoner turned to fit himself through the tiny doorway, Mark caught a glimpse of his timer.

0 years. 0 months. 0 days. 0 hours. 3 minutes. 14 seconds.

Mark stifled a gasp. He looked wide-eyed at Johnny. He had seen it too.

“Let's take him to the police.” Johnny said softly.

Chris-R's death march continued. He stomped along, wishing feebly for a means of escape. As the three men emerged from the building, a pale, gaunt man skittered deeper into the alley, carrying a worn briefcase stuffed with gauze and cutting tools. Chris-R solemnly watched him go. Within the hour, Chris-R had been turned over the Ministry, terminated, and processed into hog feed. His time was up. Those were the rules.

Back on the rooftop, Lisa and Claudette interrogated Denny. Where did he meet a reprobate? Why was he using cash and not time credit? Only people who palled around with repros carried cash. He had crossed a line. Denny's nerves hadn't passed; he dodged their questions with inconsistent lies.

Finally he was rescued again by Johnny, who pleaded with the women to stop. It was a mistake. He didn't mean for this to happen. He just wanted a bunch of drugs to help seduce some college girls. He figured the Ministry would pick up the repro before he had to pay him.

The group filtered back down into the apartment. Everyone kept to themselves until the shock had subsided. In the evening, Johnny laughed gently as he placed the repro's gun– his sole legacy– into a small hinged box in his bedroom.

***

 

Johnny wrung the water bottle in his hands as he stood behind the door. Days later, Denny's close call with the crazed repro still hung heavily around the building. Everyone was still on edge, and Johnny didn't want to be a burden. But he had a new problem he needed to discuss.

He listened intently for several minutes until he heard footsteps coming down the hallway. He looked through the peephole and saw a dispirited Mark walk past toward the stairwell. Johnny felt a pang of sorrow and proudly accepted it. It was all part of being so profoundly in sync with Mark. Johnny knew that his bosom friend liked to go to the rooftop to think, and he gave him a minute's head start before quietly following.

The topic ricocheted around Johnny's mind. A heinous accusation, so bizarrely out of character, and yet the rumour mill had accepted it. He knew Mark would believe him, and maybe he could help him control the damage. But dear, sweet Mark had troubles of his own. How could he broach the subject delicately, organically?

He pushed open the door and stepped out onto the roof.

“I did not hit her! It's not true! It's bullshit! I did not hit her! I did not!” he hurled his water bottle to the ground and feigned surprise when he saw Mark sitting a few feet away.

“Oh hi Mark,” he added coolly.

Mark looked up at him. He had heard Johnny's tantrum, but pretended he hadn't.

“Oh hey Johnny, what's up?”

“I have a problem with Lisa. She said that I hit her,” he blurted in a single breath, like a child tattling to Daddy.

“What?!” Mark replied. His world had turned upside down: Denny was messing around with repros; crazed gunmen were sneaking into the building; Mark himself had dragged that poor bastard in for...processing. It was all unraveling at the seams. Anything seemed possible.

“Well, did you?” he asked.

Johnny's heart was ripped in half. He thought the two of them had the ultimate bond. A friendship so powerful that it never needed to be stated. And Mark knew exactly what Johnny had sacrificed for Lisa. The toll of her unbirth– her salvation.

“No it's not true don't even ask!” he shouted. He found himself at the edge of hysteria, and scrambled to change the subject. To start scabbing the wound.

“What's new with you?” he asked.

They talked like they always did, but it wasn't quite the same. As they discussed women and infidelity, Johnny felt an unbearable ache within Mark. As much as he wished he could deny it, something was wrong. He took a deep breath and finally asked.

“What's bovvering you, Mark?”

Mark looked at him and paused meaningfully, then started for the roof access door.

“Nothin', man.”

“Do you have some secrets? Why don't you tell me? Come on.”

But Mark brushed him off. Johnny felt a saline twinge in his nose as Mark stormed away. Just before he reached the door, Denny popped out of it. Mark shoved that goddamned repro lover aside and disappeared into the stairwell.

Johnny was still shell-shocked as he and Denny chatted. He couldn't remember what movie they were going to see that afternoon. Life seemed meaningless without Mark's unconditional love.

Denny, too, had a problem, and he offered it to Johnny with great gravity. He confessed tenderly that he had feelings for Lisa and braced himself for Johnny's wrath. None came; everyone who knew Denny knew about his ravenous libido. It was only a matter of time before he wanted Lisa, too.

“Denny, don't worry about that. Lisa loves you too– as a person, as a human being, as a friend,” Johnny lied. He continued into a half-hearted speech about love, feeling utterly defeated. He didn't believe his own words, and what did a deranged sex fiend like Denny care about love? Instead he turned the young-looking man's energy onto his latest quarry.

“What about Elisabeth, huh?” he asked.

“Well...” Denny began, licking his lips. “I love her.”

“Mhmm,” Johnny replied, unconvinced.

“When I graduate from college, get a good job, I want to marry her and have kids with her.” Denny's loins burned as the image formed in his mind. By the time he finished college, Elisabeth will have finished high school. And then he would rejuvenate to meet her.

“That's the idea,” Johnny said hollowly.

“You're right,” Denny replied. “Thanks for paying my tuition.” He thumbed his loose, gaping navel.

“You're very welcome, Denny,” Johnny said, wrapping his arm around the boy's shoulders.

***

 

Johnny had never been so tormented, yet he removed his jacket slowly, casually, and tossed it over the back of the sofa. This was just a misunderstanding. Cool heads would prevail.

“I never hit you,” he said softly. He looked pleadingly at those gorgeous green eyes. “You shouldn't have any secrets from me. I'm your future husband.” The words felt alien. It was different from before.

A hell-born glint flicked through Lisa's eyes. “You sure about that?” She smiled sickly as Johnny flinched. “Maybe I'll change my mind.”

A primal fear awakened within Johnny and battled fiercely with his pretense of calm.

“Don't talk like that,” he begged, “What do you mean?” He knew what she meant. His heart pounded.

“What do you think?”

The profane ritual. Their black covenant– that which saved her and now sustained him. He was nearly due, but he shared her time as long as her heart belonged to him. This was law.

And Lisa didn't want to talk about it. She threatened his life and then tried to slither away.

“How dare you talk to me like that?!” he shouted. He shoved her to the couch but did not hit her. He felt his mind beginning to fray. “You should tell me everything!”

Still Lisa refused to talk about it. Johnny begged her with increasing hysteria, and she just looked away.

Johnny felt the edge of the abyss: his soul being drawn irresistibly into the vortex. “You are part of my life! You are everything!” he wailed as he pulled down his right sleeve. He showed her the numbers, all glowing in dull red save the first, which burned amber.

7 years. 2 months. 13 days. 4 hours. 45 minutes. 54 seconds.

“I could not go on without you, Lisa!” he cried.

Lisa lost her nerve. Confronted with the brutality of her threat, she ached for a truce.

“You're scaring me,” she whimpered.

But she was tearing him apart.

***

 

Peter ambled peacefully through the streets of San Francisco. His full tuxedo drew just a few side-eyed glances in the steady eccentricity of the town. Johnny had hired a tailor to come out to his home that afternoon. All of the boys from the bridal party would get their measurements taken at once, so the tailor could take in Mark's hilariously huge jacket and make the final touches for the others. Peter remembered Johnny's child-like exuberance when he asked him to be a groomsman, and the image brought a slanted smile to his face. He didn't have heart to tell him he couldn't do it.

He pulled back his sleeve and shielded his wrist from the high-riding sun with his left hand. He stared vacantly at the numbers on his timer.

A sudden clap on his shoulder startled him. Mark stood beside him, his uneasy smile melting away as he saw Peter's fear. Peter looked away, embarrassed, and quickly fixed his sleeve. He had forgiven Mark for...the incident, and it was time to act like it. He smiled sheepishly and the two walked together until they could see the private exterior entrance to Johnny's apartment. As they watched Denny go inside, Mark stumbled, nearly tripping on his shoelaces. He told Peter to go on ahead and he'd catch up with him in a second.

Peter rang the doorbell and was greeted by the tuxedo-clad Denny, who was inexplicably holding a football. Peter hid his affectionate confusion as he crossed the room to the chair Johnny indicated. Mark followed a second later, as promised, and the other three men fawned over his slick, shaven face. Peter, in his panic, hadn't noticed it.

Johnny had just gotten off the phone with the tailor. He was running fifteen minutes late, so they had some time to kill. Fortunately, Denny had a contingency plan.

“You guys wanna play some football?” he asked.

“In tuxes?” Peter asked. Then, seeing an opportunity, he continued. “No, you gotta be kidding.”

Denny sought allies. “Come on, Mark, let's do it.”

“I'm up for it!” the babyface exclaimed.

“Johnny?” Denny asked.

Johnny shrugged. “Ask Peter.” Peter's excitement swelled. He faced away from Denny to avoid tipping his cards.

“Come on, Peter!” Denny needled.

“No, I don't think so,” he cracked a crooked smile. No one could see it.

“Please?”

Peter shook his head. “No,” he said, stifling laughter.

“Come onnnn,” Denny pleaded. The three of them burst into a jeering chicken song.

“Cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep,” they chanted.

Peter grinned. He had never let them convince him before. It had finally worked for them: a magical day.

They rushed out to the alleyway beside the building and started tossing the pigskin. Each man asserted his masculinity in magnificent tosses and elaborate corkscrews. Peter was elated. He wished the moment could last forever. Mark told him to go long, and he excitedly scrambled up the asphalt. His right foot caught on an unseen bump, sending him crashing to the ground.

He wasn't hurt. Instead, he was healed– blessed by the sound of his friends rushing to his aid.

“Gee, Peter, you're clumsy,” Denny joked as they gathered around him.

Peter smiled again. “That's it,” he reflected sagely. “I'm done.”

He was uplifted by his friends– spiritually and literally. He turned to the mischievous young sprite and gazed at him appreciatively.

“Great idea, Denny,” he said.

The Ministry took him that night.

***

 

Paper cups were stacked high beside the register at the cafe. It was one of those new age, granola places. Pay what you can into the donation jar at the door. Simultaneously the bane and the charm of the city.

A distant voice roused Mark from a bleak daydream.

“How about you?” the cashier asked. Her friendliness seemed genuine. Mark felt a faint warmth bravely traversing his numbness.

“I'll have the mint tea,” he replied.

“Okay!” she nodded.

“Medium also?” the second barista asked.

The choice was meaningless. “Yeah.”

The cashier smiled. “Go sit down. We'll be right there.”

“Thank you,” Johnny said and guided his best friend to a table by the window.

“Man, I'm so tired of girls' games,” Mark began immediately.

“What happened now, Mark?” Johnny prompted.

Mark took a deep breath and pressed on. “Relationships never work, man. I don't know why I waste my time.” He faltered. He knew he was a fraud: he never gave women any time to waste.

“What makes you say that?” Johnny offered, desperate to keep their exercise going. He could see that Mark's thoughts were drifting back to their shared grief.

Mark stared down at the table. “It's not that easy, Johnny.” He couldn't just think about something else. Couldn't just change the subject. Peter's death had profoundly affected him. All of them were devastated– Denny, Lisa, Johnny– but they didn't know about Mark's secret shame. He now understood why Peter had forgiven him so easily: in a fit of marijuana-fueled rage, Mark had tried to hurl the gentle psychologist from the roof of his building. But Peter was just days away from expiry. He had accepted death.

Peter's limitless wisdom was what had enraged Mark so. He knew that Mark had been sleeping with Lisa, and this was extremely dangerous. Lisa's timer had never rolled back. Maybe Peter knew everything, and chose to take Mark's secret to the grave.

Johnny commiserated with Mark, but stressed that they needed to move on. “Well, you should be happy, Mark,” he said delicately.

Mark sighed. “Yeah, I know. Life is too short.”

Why didn't Peter ask for more time? Johnny had none left to give, but why not Denny? He felt the next inevitable thought pounce on him, sinking in its fangs.

_Why not me?_

He must have known. That beautiful man must have known.

Mark sat in reverent silence as their drinks arrived. The sunny cashier saw their solemn faces and offered cheesecake. They declined politely. This was no celebration.

The revelation of Peter's love inspired Mark to carry on. One day at a time.

“How was work today?” he asked.

Johnny acknowledged the effort. “Oh, pretty good. We got a new client at the bank. We'll make a lot of money.”

A new Long-Lived had just been discovered: a man with a natural life span of 117 years. Presently a reckless 22-year-old, he relished the chance to contract with the Chronobank. In the weeks to come, he would extract vials of his essence to be stored in The Room– the grand vault buried deep beneath the bank. One by one they would be auctioned to the highest bidder and their contents plunged into the navels of the elite. After each rejuvenation he would age a little, and each time he would make a small fortune, less the fees from Johnny's bank. The nouveau riche.

“What client?” Mark asked resentfully.

“I cannot tell you. It's confidential!” Johnny replied. The identities of Long-Lived males were closely guarded. They lived in constant fear of being kidnapped to be milked like animals.

“Oh, come on. Why not?”

“No, I can't.” Johnny took the natural segue. “Anyway, how is your sex life?”

Mark was seized by the familiar fear. He washed it out of his face and replaced it with a practiced confidence.

“I can't talk about it,” he replied with a wry grin.

“Why not?”

Mark looked into his tea and performed a long, minty stonewall. He came up with nothing, but was saved by circumstance.

“Oh, God, I have to run.” Johnny said.

***

 

The pits of Mark's eyes burned. He closed them momentarily, stealing a fleeting relief as Lisa guided him up the spiral staircase. He had barely slept the past few nights. They ascended into the dimly lit bedroom. When he saw the plush, inviting bed, all he wanted was to fall asleep in it.

But the succubus had other plans. She turned to him and clasped his wrists.

“What's going on here?” Mark asked. He needed to be sure of what she wanted. Last time it was just sex; he prayed this time was the same.

“I like you very much, Mark.” She stroked his chest hungrily.

“Come on, Johnny's my best friend,” he replied. He chose his words carefully to remind her of their agreement.

It was to no avail. “Just one more time.” She giggled girlishly and lured him to the canopy bed. Obeying expectation, Mark took off his shirt and began to caress her awkwardly, woodenly. He remained vigilant for any hint of the impossible request.

But the immense tension within Lisa required a simple release. She yearned only for the natural deed; to perform the sacred act of lovemaking as penance for her heretical designs.

Mark, too, was freed from anxiety as she guided him between her legs. The betrayal of his best friend was a necessary evil, a lesser sin. He knew in his heart that this was an act of self-preservation. Salvation. He would never survive as Mark-R.

***

 

Lisa sighed despondently as Michelle handed her a white bowl. She set it on the coffee table next to the bag of snacks for Johnny's party: flatbread, chips, and more chips. Lisa had omitted chocolate to avoid triggering Michelle's intense fetish.

“Everything's changed,” Lisa started, “I need more from life than what Johnny can give me.” It seemed their heist was never going to happen. Johnny made a good living, but he was out of time to give her, and the price of essence was ever climbing. Their romantic vision of eternal life together was proving just a dream.

“Suddenly my eyes are wide open and I can see everything so clearly.” Lisa said. She imagined the limitless years stacked high within The Room. “I want it _all_.”

Her cocoaphile friend knew about her affair. “You think you can get it all from Mark?”

Lisa smirked. “If he can't give me what I want, somebody else will.” All she needed was a younger, more daring conspirator. It didn't really matter who it was.

Michelle was unnerved. “Lisa, you're sounding just like your mother. You're being so manipulative.”

“So what?” Lisa retorted. She looked with disdain at her friend's healthy adult body. Lisa would never reach Michelle's physical age. An enormous laryngeal tumour was fated to strangle her from within by the time she was twenty-six. All she could do was stay ahead of it, rejuvenating each time it reached critical mass.

“You can learn something from me,” Lisa added. She thought herself some demented saint. A messiah for schemers and parasites. “You have to take as much as you can,” she added. Lisa was doomed to live on borrowed time– or stolen time– forever.

“You have to live, live, live!” she pronounced zealously.

***

 

The invader's presence cast a pall over Johnny's birthday celebrations. The existing tensions between the guests– Johnny and Lisa's failing engagement, the shameful affair– all seemed insignificant in the face of his incursion. The stranger carved a wake of discomfort as he mingled among them, sadistically drinking in their unstated outrage.

“Revived” was the official term, the one the Ministry used. Behind closed doors, people called them vultures. The wealthy elite, bored with their perfect lives, could purchase wholesale the identities of terminated people. With a handsome fee paid to the Ministry, they simply picked up where the deceased had left off: his occupation, his friends, his social engagements. Anyone who failed to humour the Revived, to pretend that they know him like they knew his predecessor, was apprehended by the Ministry for Quickening. It was wildly corrupt: the common people were forced into a morbid charade for the delight of the super elite.

Lisa was approaching her breaking point. “You know that's like the third time you've told me that joke tonight?” she protested between fake laughs.

Steven grinned wickedly. Of course he knew. It was one of Peter's favourites. He used to tell it all the time, according to the dossier. He was toying with them, tasting their despair, savouring their grief.

He looked nothing like Peter. He didn't have his ever-blinking, angelic eyes. His serene glow. His enchanting spectacles. Steven had chosen to make no attempt. To be audacious.

Mark sat slumped against the wall. The desecration of Peter's memory made him nauseous. He watched Lisa for signs of distress. Some self-destructive part of him begged for an opportunity to thrash the vulture. He and Lisa exchanged a brief sympathetic glance. It was unbearable.

Lisa disengaged from the Revived and waited long enough that she could plausibly deny her intentions. Finally, she acted.

“Hey everybody, let's go outside for some fresh air!” She announced. Murmurs of agreement rolled through the room. It was a reasonable request; something Peter would have agreed to. The party guests filed out, and Lisa shut the door as soon as Steven was outside. She turned back, exasperated, to Mark. Her head was swimming. She had been guzzling champagne all night to chase away the ghost of Peter. Mad with grief, she threw herself at Mark.

Mark received her advances reluctantly. He was confident this wouldn't go far, given the timing.

“What are you doing?” he asked, “I mean, are you crazy? Everybody's here!”

“No they're not. They're all outside,” Lisa observed astutely.

“She-devil,” Mark lamented. “You planned this all along.” They resumed making out.

The door slammed shut. Their surprise rapidly boiled into terror as they saw the mad, piercing eyes of the Revived.

“What's going on here?” Steven asked snidely.

Mark and Lisa rose to their feet only to stand helplessly silent.

“Why are you doing this?” Steven demanded. He spoke with his hands. Peter never spoke with his hands.

Lisa reflexively grasped Mark's arm as the Revived approached them. “I love him,” she said timidly.

“I don't believe it!” Steven shot back. Mark ignited. He knew himself that Lisa didn't love him, but what did this goddamned vulture know? He was nobody to them: some disgusting, soulless husk.

Mark didn't know what did it. Maybe he felt like his secret was about to be discovered. Maybe he just didn't care anymore. The Ministry, expiry, Quickening, it was all fucking nonsense. He thought of Chris-R standing tall on the rooftop as his counter rolled down. And of Peter. He wouldn't let anyone do this to Peter.

“You don't understand anything, man.” He really didn't. Not strife, not loss, only luxury and sick voyeurism. Mark steeled himself as he crafted his words: he would evade Quickening, but he wouldn't pretend. This man's wealth didn't make him their friend. Their advisor. Their psychologist. His presence was purchased; his opinions meant nothing.

“Leave your stupid comments in your pocket!” Mark roared.

***

 

The atmosphere of the birthday party grew thick. The droll irony of the event had been suffocated by the mounting pressure. Johnny fumed, finally convinced of Lisa's infidelity. He had overheard her bragging of it to her mother days before. He thought it was bluster; Lisa hated Denny, and neither Peter nor Mark would ever betray him. She didn't have any other friends. The computer business was too competitive.

But seeing Lisa and Mark taking refuge in each other's arms against the emotional onslaught of the Revived, Johnny knew. Love is blind, but Johnny saw clearly.

Likewise, Mark's anxiety soared. Lisa couldn't keep her hands off him, and she didn't care who noticed. She seemed poised to take the leap– to finally leave Johnny for him. And he knew he couldn't give her what she wanted. It was time to shut her down. It was time to tell Johnny.

Mark recoiled from Lisa's claws as she stroked his back. “Who the hell do you think you are?” he shouted.

Confused, hurt, Lisa fired back. “Just shut up!” she spat as she slapped him across the face.

Johnny leapt into action. “What are you doing?” he called as he rushed between them. “What's going on here?”

“You really don't know, do you?” Mark started. He wet his lips in preparation for the bombshell.

But Johnny cut him off. “Maybe I know more than you think I do, Mark!”

Mark was suddenly lightheaded. Hot shame flooded into his cheeks. Icy prickles swirled around his useless navel. An animal impulse took control and he lunged at his former best friend.

***

 

Johnny sat splayed on the bathroom floor, fed up with this world. The party was over. Lisa, the betrayer, jiggled the locked doorknob and tried to coax him out. This was her final performance: she knew they were through, but she wanted to be the victim.

“In a few minutes, bitch!” Johnny retorted. Lisa smiled secretly. That would do. She protested weakly as she walked over to the telephone sitting atop the dresser. She felt nothing as she dialed the number of her next plaything.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mark? I need to talk to you.” She shifted her voice until it was perfectly distraught.

“What's going on?”

“Don't worry about Johnny. He's just being a big baby.” She glared at the bathroom door. “You know I love you very much,” she lied. She searched her frozen heart for the most romantic phrase she could muster. “You're the sparkle of my life,” she continued. “I can't live without you. I love you,” she concluded.

Mark quickly processed her confession. He had hoped he would be free of Lisa by now. His first plan had been to reveal their affair, invoking Johnny's wrath and causing him to be cast out of their circle. Johnny would stay with Lisa, surely, because of their covenant. His life depended on it. And Lisa would stay at least long enough to find another man to support her. A clean break, and he would know not to cavort with avid rejuvenators next time. Perhaps he would take up the cloth.

But Johnny knew. Mark recalled the sneering, molten face seconds before their fight. He knew more than Mark thought he did...

Johnny was much more dangerous than the she-devil. It was important, now, to separate them. Deathly important.

“Why don't you ditch this creep? I don't like him anymore.” Mark said. His heart pounded.

“I know, he's not worth it. Why don't I come up there and be with you?”

Mark was washed with nervous elation. “Sure baby, come on up. I want your body.” He froze. Was that too much?

“You got it,” Lisa replied. She turned to the bathroom door and raised her voice. “I'm on my way. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Johnny was eager to build his case. Perhaps he could appeal if he could prove there was adultery. They might even refund him the time.

“Who were you talking to?” he demanded as emerged from the bathroom.

Lisa looked away. “Nobody.”

Johnny smirked. “We'll see about that,” he said as he descended the spiral stairs. A minute later, he returned with the 186th cassette that had been placed into a tape recorder attached to their other phone. During the day, the housekeeper turned over the tapes or changed them every half hour. At night, Johnny took on the task himself, sleeping in short bursts to ensure complete coverage. His drooping eyelids were a testament to his vigilance.

“We'll see about that,” he repeated blearily. He placed their second tape recorder on the bed and inserted the cassette. Lisa nervously started packing during the encore of her steamy exchange. She tossed a pile of clothes on the foot of the bed and began folding them. She had begun to tune out the sound of her voice when the tape suddenly stopped. Before she could react, Johnny snatched her by the wrist.

“You little tramp. How could you do this to me?!” he screamed. He looked wild, demonic. A vein bulged in his forehead. Lisa was stunned. His eyes bored into her.

“I gave you seven years of my life.” Johnny spoke this thought aloud, then imploded into agony.

Lisa was reawakened. Her spirit was reanimated with fury, much like her body had been restored by their ritual.

“You little prick!” She was incredulous. All the hard work she had done for their relationship, all the anger, all the doubt, boiled to the surface. She supported him through it all; he had even said she was the only one who loved him.

And she never asked for anything. She was no fucking charity case. She stood aside gracefully as Johnny rejuvenated Denny in their bed just so he could lure younger prey. She had never asked for a day of his essence until her cancer forced her hand. And then Johnny came to rescue her, to be the angel. The perfect man.

“I put up with you for seven years!” she screamed. She knew she had earned every last second.

Johnny poured out his grief as the tape continued. He cried, pleaded, lamented. But Lisa was resilient, reborn. She waited, unflinching, for a break in his self-indulgent drivel.

At the first silence, she spoke the incantation. “I'm leaving you, Johnny.” And she walked away.

Johnny raged. He trashed the apartment, swatting aside furniture and treasured artworks. Ornamental fruit littered the floor as he heaved the television out the window into the alley below. In a brief lucid moment he hurled a large decorative stone at a mirror in their bedroom. He shattered the thin glass, cursing the years she stole from him. He whirled about in a destructive trance as he demolished the ruins of their life.

 

Johnny emerged from the haze locked in a post-coital embrace with Lisa's red dress. He heard his heavy breath as he stared, unbelieving, at the timer in his wrist. The amber number had vanished: in its place was a stark red zero.

“Why is this happening to me?” he asked aloud. The disheveled room responded with silence. He spotted a solution on the floor a few feet away. He would never let the Ministry take him.

He lifted the hinged boxed slowly and gently opened it. The reprobate's gun glinted invitingly. A silver bullet for a monster.

Johnny invoked a comforting ceremony from a distant memory.

“God, forgive me.”

The gunshot echoed through the ravaged bedroom. Then, silence again.

 

They found him the next morning. They wailed and cried together in a sickening pretense. Mark was relieved: his secret was safe. Lisa executed the next phase of her plan.

“I've lost him, but I still have you, right?” She embraced Mark lustfully over Johnny's unbreathing body. “Right?”

But Mark seized the advantage. “You don't have me. You'll never have me. You killed him.” His best friend.

Lisa's fake tears were washed away by real ones. She would have to start over. To find a new beloved who would give his time to her. A man who would save her; heal her. Maybe this time it would be different. Maybe she would find someone she truly loved. She knelt on the bloodstained floor and shook with the force of her sobs.

She had seven years.

 


End file.
